


If You Wanna Stay (Maybe It Won't Hurt)

by bookslutskye



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, i woke up at 2am to write this, napoleon has self-esteem issues i don't make the rules, self-depricating internal monologue, soft and tender making out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25604380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookslutskye/pseuds/bookslutskye
Summary: Napoleon and Illya make out and are soft and insecure what more do you want from me.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 177





	If You Wanna Stay (Maybe It Won't Hurt)

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were kissing. Horizontally.

Illya was divested of his hat and jacket somewhere down the line and Napoleon’s jacket, waistcoat, and even tie were undone. They’re on the bed, because it’s more comfortable than standing, and Napoleon hovers above Illya because damn him if he doesn’t want to feel bigger than the giant for once. Illya had no apparent qualms about this and went easily enough, seemingly only worried about keeping them both lip-locked for the foreseeable future.

When they do break apart, Illya chases him like a drowned man chases air, despite how heavily he’s breathing. Napoleon feels just as desperate, but he needs to explore Illya. Needs to see what makes him tick, needs to bring him unimaginable pleasure.

He presses a kiss to Illya’s jaw, intending to trail a path down his neck, but is stopped by Illya stiffening and sucking in a harsh breath.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

“Yes,” Illya responds, but doesn’t relax, doesn’t let go of that breath.

“Do you want me to stop?” Napoleon prompts again.

“No,” he says, finally exhaling. So Napoleon presses another kiss to a spot just next to the last one, right under the corner of Illya’s jaw where he knows the jugular to sit. He expects a lot of reactions to that, mostly of the violent rejection kind, especially since Illya’s still tense. What he does not expect is for Illya to make a pathetic sound and tilt his head back even further. But Napoleon is known for little more than his ability to adapt and improvise, so he attacks that spot again with more pressure and confidence, gently sucking at the skin.

Illya melts.

His entire body goes lax and he sighs as though Napoleon has just removed every worry, every stressor, every thought from his mind. And maybe he has. Another thing Napoleon is known for is how good he is at pleasure.

He trails down Illya’s neck, just as he had planned, lightly skimming his teeth along the side of it and Illya shivers. He’s quiet, which isn’t much of a surprise - Napoleon is too, generally - but he more than makes up for it by being so responsive. He begins to suck a mark on Illya’s neck, not concerned with visibility since Illya has such a propensity to wearing turtlenecks. Napoleon feels high off the sound he makes at that; somewhere between a grunt and a keen.

This is what he’s good at. Apart from thievery and subterfuge, his talent lies in people and how to play them like a violin. This has always been the way he has made himself useful, worthy of people’s time and affections. He takes anything good he’s given and returns it tenfold. And he feels especially privileged to have the opportunity to lavish upon Illya Kuryakin, the Red Peril, KGB’s finest.

So he takes his time, marking up Illya’s neck and collarbones, finding the places that make him cry out. He explores Illya’s mouth, discovering a technique that makes the hands on his jacket tighten. He lets his own hands wander, slipping under Illya’s shirt to skim along his sides and make him shiver. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t undress either of them, doesn’t chase his own pleasure. Just enjoys the truly exquisite man underneath him.

Strangely, he doesn’t feel the need to go any further. He can feel Illya hard underneath him, knows he’s hard himself, but it’s not pressing, not the urgent heat he’s so used to. It’s nothing he’s ever experienced before but he finds he quite likes it. So he kisses Illya languidly, drags the backs of his fingers along Illya’s neck, and slowly rolls his hips down. There’s no goal in mind with the motion, no intensity, just a gentle heat that Napoleon wants to make last forever.

Illya seems to drift underneath him, seems to want to drag this out just as much as Napoleon; content to just kiss for hours at a time. He tightly fists Napoleon’s jacket, surely wrinkling it all to hell, but other than that he’s completely lax, willing to follow Napoleon’s lead. It’s intoxicating how pliant, how undemanding he is. He honestly expected a bit more roughness from his Peril. Illya is incredibly gentle with many things - babies, animals, Gaby - but Napoleon never suspected himself to be on that list.

So when Illya puts a gentle hand on his jaw to cup his face and guide him closer, Napoleon surprised them both with a pathetic sound of his own.

He is not used to being treated gently. Their first two interactions, Illya tried to kill him for fuck’s sake. And it’s not like they haven’t fought since then. And Napoleon doesn’t mind rough, quite likes it in fact. But these kinds of soft touches, these tender treatments, are often saved for lovers. People who truly care for each other, not just warm bodies. He knows what Illya said, what he claims to want, and Napoleon had been more than willing to try and give him that, but he never really believed it. Never really thought someone would want him more than once and in more than one way.

Illya’s hand doesn’t leave his jaw, but his fingers start moving, gently scratching at the nape of his neck. Napoleon shivers and he feels Illya smile against his lips. Quite suddenly, without realizing when or how they got there, Illya is setting the pace, Illya is the one leading, and Napoleon is the one melting into nothingness.

The other hand that was fisted in his jacket moves, pushing under his shirt and simply holding his waist. Napoleon pants into Illya’s mouth, breathless with this sudden change of dynamics. It’s not what he’s used to, a bit of a surprise after having Illya pliant under him, but he’s certainly not complaining. Then Illya gently flips them, and Napoleon is certain he won’t be catching his breath any time soon. He continues the rhythm Napoleon set, situated obscenely between Napoleon’s legs, unhurried and intoxicatingly gentle. And all the while, that hand stays gently cradling his face, fingers gently scratching the base of his skull.

He’s starting to believe it now.

And believing that is a dangerous thing that can lead to disappointment and heartbreak when it inevitably turns out wrong, but for tonight Napoleon doesn’t care. For now, he will believe. In this moment, and in many moments to come (he hopes), he won’t worry about the morning, won’t ruin what he has with his cynicism.

“Breathe, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs, still rubbing circles at the place where his hair ends.

“Hard to do that when you’re occupying my mouth, Peril,” Napoleon pants back.

Illya smiles, a playfully mischievous thing, and says, “I can stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” Napoleon says and pulls him back down.

He’ll stay here, above or below this incredible creature who’s decided Napoleon to be worth his time, at least for a little while. He’ll melt under his touch and make Illya melt in return, for as long as he’s allowed. Because Illya doesn’t treat Napoleon’s pleasure as a transaction, doesn’t treat his company like a chore. Illya is soft, gentle, and treats Napoleon like something to be cherished. And if it only lasts a month, or a week, or even just tonight, Napoleon won’t worry about that.

He’ll enjoy this while he has it, and never take it for granted.


End file.
